


Ending Two: more sense of an ending

by grassle



Series: the desire And the spasm [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassle/pseuds/grassle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The series gone soppy rom-com, more SheerLuck! than <i>Sherlock</i>, with Sherlock in an M/F/M relationship? How very dare you! Oh, wait...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Sherlock stomped very dramatically around his room for a bit, ignoring the thumps on his ceiling made by objects being flung onto the floor of the bedroom above. Eventually he stopped flouncing around and played the violin for a bit, still ignoring the thumps. And the cries. And the entreaties. He must have dropped off to sleep, because he snapped to with a clear head. He knew what to do. He had to go up and tell John how he felt. That his writing, while egregious, had made Sherlock want to have sex with him. Quite a lot.

And what words of love they were that had made Sherlock fall for John! “Jake’s” declaration of intent to “Sherwood” (“Imma gonna have you, buddy, and have you real hard. Hard and strong. Like a hard strong bourbon. And hold the damn rocks. Uh-huh.”) had lured Sherlock off his sofa not quite as fast as Elizabeth Barrett had leapt off hers on clapping eyes on Robert Browning, but pretty damn quick all the same.

“John! John! D’you fancy a f–”

But the room was empty. And not just empty of John, but of some of his stuff as well. Sherlock did a quick check under the bed, ignoring the pile of magazines, except for the most interesting ones – was every fetish catered for, these days? Hooray! – and found John’s rather girly weekend bag – Harry’s old one – was gone. Some of John’s clothes were missing, most tellingly his best – well, only – suit. His bedside reading book _How to Deal with Difficult People_. His passport. His gun. Wait, what about his – _Noooooo!_

“Et tu, Mr MacCuddles?” cried Sherlock, sweeping the bedclothes to the floor in a swish, then sinking to his knees and raising his arms skyward. For the missing teddy bear could mean only one thing: John had eloped.

“Noooo!” Sherlock beat his fists on the floor, ignoring the thumps from the flat downstairs, cursing John’s early-rising habits which made it too late for Sherlock to prevent the wedding. But he could still stop the honeymoon! Yes! He’d make an impetuous, last-minute race across the city to the airport, just like in the inane film John had made him watch last month. What was it called – oh yes, _Platoon_! That was it.

He rushed into the living room, and saw John’s laptop – huh, that cursed object which had started this whole chain of events – was open, and on. John never left it on! This must be a clue! John wanted Sherlock to find him! This was a test. John wanted Sherlock to prove himself by…reading John’s Facebook page.

“I’ll bloody say ‘It’s complicated!’” howled Sherlock on seeing the change in John’s status. He narrowed his eyes and wondered for the first time just who, or whom (Sherlock always got those confused) John had married. He didn’t have to wonder long. Amanda’s only update was “Flying down to Carnival in Rio with my new squeeze!” She meant John! Because during sex, John made noises like a squeaky toy! At least, Sherlock had deduced that he did!

“Amanda! ‘Worthy of being loved’ my arsehole!” yelled Sherlock in a right strop. “You should have been called whatever the Latin for ‘nice taste in jewellery but really a scheming, blonde man stealer’ is! I’ll stop you.”

He fell prey to a vision of Amanda and John being married by a top hat-wearing houngan, his face painted black and white, his torso covered in strings of plastic beads, before they engaged in a machete duel and a snake dance - no, wait, that was Mardi Gras in New Orleans, in that stupid Bond film – was there time to torch John’s 007 DVDs?

Sherlock spent a few minutes searching for lighter fuel and matches before he ran down the stairs and out of the door. Only Mrs Turner’s shrieks and yells of “How dare you defile that woman! She was a saint, do you hear me – a saint!” reminded him he hadn’t got dressed and was still wearing, or nearly not wearing John’s commemorative Charles and Diana tea towel. Bugger.

Still, he didn’t regret losing time getting dressed when he considered that Amanda would probably be dressed in utterly pathetic holiday wear, and unable to defeat the triumvirate of Dolce and Gabbana, Spencer Hart and Belstaff that Sherlock had going on.

Sherlock ran out into the street and stopped dead, realising he had no idea where John and Amanda would be flying from. Still, he knew someone who would. He threw himself into the silver Jag he’d commandeered yesterday and within twenty minutes was at Amanda’s, yelling up for her sister.

“Serena! Serena!” he screamed. “You have to help me!” When there was no answer, he snatched up a stone and lobbed it at the window above. Too big. Too hard. There was a _ker-rash_ and a tinkling noise as the glass shattered. Oh well, Amanda would get it repaired. A blonde head appeared.

“What the fuck– Sherlock? Did you throw this fucking half brick in the fucking window?”

“I might have. But that’s not important right now! You have to help me. I need to know where Amanda is. I’ll stay here until you tell me. I’ll haunt you, day and night and–”

“Heathrow, midday flight to Rio. Now piss off.”

“Oh, right. Thanks. Pissing off.”

“Hey, don’t forget your fucking brick, fuckwit.”

And Serena hurled it back down, missing Sherlock but hitting the Jag, and with a _ker-rash_ and a shattering noise, the windscreen caved in. Oh well, Amanda would get it repaired. Sherlock pushed as much of the loose glass away as he could and zoomed off.

After a few minutes, he realised he had no idea where Heathrow Airport was, or how to get there, and worse, if he thought about what he was doing, he had no idea how to drive.

“Is it ‘clutch, brake, accelerator’ or the other way round?” he yelled and gestured at the driver of a passing tour bus, and scowled at all the tourists on the top deck taking pictures and filming him as he wove and skidded about the road shouting obscenities.

“That Colin Morgan’s looking right rough,” commented one.

“That’ll be the drink,” chipped in a second.

“The pressures of fame…” bemoaned a third.

Sherlock favoured them with an age-old English salute as he sped away. He soon understood he could just about manage if he drove really quickly, and found himself on the motorway, still with no idea of the whereabouts of the airport. He was fumbling for his phone, thinking to download some sort of map, when he noticed the GPS system on the dashboard. He couldn’t get it to work, however.

“Must be voice activated!” he reasoned. “Must be tuned to Amanda’s voice!” was his next deduction, and so he set to imitating her. That was how a motorcycle policeman found him, fifteen minutes later pulled over on the hard shoulder, tears in his eyes, bent over and thumping his fists on the console and repeating “I am your mistress! You will do as I say!” in an increasingly higher pitch each time.

“Sir, could you exit your vehicle, please?” asked the nervous officer, finger on the button of his radio to call for backup.

Sherlock straightened up, feeling raw animal cunning shoot through him. “Does your bike have GPS, officer?” he enquired in his normal smooth baritone, and at the hesitant nod he received, gave a throat-straining war cry and threw himself out of the car and onto the bike. “Cheers!” he called over his shoulder as he resumed his journey. “Take the car. It’s not mine, anyway.”

Luckily he’d learnt how to ride a motorbike in his youth, upsetting his mother by hanging out with the rougher elements of the village youth. Mummie might have gently advised, “NQOC - not quite our class, dear,” and Mycroft might have sniffed, “How very council,” but Sherlock had never been more grateful for his time spent with the local chavistocracy than now. Still, after a while, his arms and shoulders started to ache from managing the bike, and he wondered if a long, heavy coat was the most suitable bike-riding attire. He kept having to tug it away from the wheels.

Maybe it would be better to sit sidesaddle, like photos of his grandmama as a prim young girl out fox hunting in Leicestershire, where the worst disaster to be avoided at all costs was a split Belvoir*? Sherlock was dragged from his musings by the sight of an ambulance. Brilliant. He could hitch a lift. And have a little rest in the back. He drew level and made perfectly understandable sign language gestures indicating they should slow down, he wanted to jump aboard. It did slow down, and he grabbed the door handle.

The driver’s companion, obviously made nervous by the traumas of his job, let out a little shrieking noise and slapped his hands at him. Sherlock unsnapped the young man’s seat belt and the pudgy fellow tumbled free for Sherlock to leap into his place.

“Take the bike! It’s not mine, anyway,” he yelled at the human bouncing ball coming to a halt back down the road. He shut the door and turned to the spotty youth driving.

“Is this a kidnap, or a hijack? Only I always get those mixed up,” said the youth. He shook his head sadly. “S’pose you think we’re carrying drugs in the back.”

Sherlock perked up a little at that. Seeing as he was here…

“If possible, if you’re able, could you let me know how long I’m to be your prisoner for, sir? Only I’ve just gone and got myself a ticket to the Olympics – looks like being a great year for London, wouldn’t you say? Sports fan at all, sir? – and I wouldn’t– ”

“I have no interest in your person! I merely require a lift to Heathrow with all haste. I have to stop Amanda! It’s a matter of the utmost urgency.”

“Heathrow? I’m headed there! Is this, could this be…a mad dash to the airport, sir? To prevent someone boarding a plane?” The lad was breathless with excitement, his face pink and his zits standing out like red laser pointer dots.

“Indeed. My life will be ruined if–”

“Maybe this will help! Get us in the mood, speed the way!” The obliging lad rummaged around in the CDs on the dashboard. “Owww! There was no need for that!” He rubbed his slapped cheek and looked mournfully after the soundtrack of _Love, Actually_ Sherlock had frisbeed out of the window.

“On the contrary, there was every need,” replied Sherlock, raising a warning eyebrow. “Now, all haste, if you’d be so good. I’m going for a little lie down.”

He climbed through to the back and arsed around with the equipment there, using the stethoscope, sphygmomanometer and pulse oximeter to take his pulse, blood pressure and blood oxygen level. He had a few quick bursts of oxygen and nitrous oxide from the canister and slid in a line for a cheeky dextrose IV infusion. He was just looking for the epinephrine, planning to flick a peanut into Mycroft’s mouth and dance around him holding the prefilled syringe in its nice yellow box when the vehicle slammed to a halt. The driver must have released the doors because Sherlock shot straight out on his wheeled trolley stretcher, not needing the, “We’re here, sir!” that floated in his wake.

 

*Yeah, this joke doesn’t really work if you don’t know that Belvoir, the name of one of the Leicestershire hunts, is pronounced bee-ver.


	2. Chapter Two

His momentum propelled him inside the sliding doors – luckily open – and a fair way along the concourse. Sherlock leapt off the trolley and sprinted the few feet to the Information Desk, preparing to harangue the scraped-haired, orange-faced crone there to thwart Amanda, that, that boggler, that juggling fiend that was paltering with him in a double sense. (Sherlock had once been left all alone at summer camp with nothing but a complete Shakespeare for company.)

“I HAVE TO STOP AMANDA!” he yelled.

“Certainly, sir,” replied the satsuma-faced woman. “Last name?”

Sherlock glared at her. “IT’S SOMETHING CORNISH!” he shouted, grabbing the mic.

“CLOTTED CREAM!” he yelled down it into a swirl of feedback. “PIXIES! AGATHA CHRISTIE!”

“That’s Devon, sir,” said an even more Oompa-Loompa coloured co-worker, leaving her station next door to join in. “Agatha Christie was from Devon.”

“SIR FRANCIS DRAKE!” howled Sherlock, not relinquishing the mic despite the ear-piercing feedback.

“Still Devon, I’m afraid, sir,” commented their male colleague coming to help, eyeing Sherlock appreciatively. “You could have gone with Daphne Du Maurier, or–”

“IT’S NOT A ‘WHO CAN SAY THE MOST THINGS ABOUT CORNWALL’ COMPETITION!” Sherlock screamed, covering the mic. “But…if it was…” He held the mic to his lips and shouted, “PUBLIC SCHOOLBOYS FINISHING THEIR GCSES AND BEING STUPIDLY DRUNK ON THE BEACH AT ROCK FOR A WEEK IN PINK SHORTS!” He stared at the trio behind the desk as if he’d just thrown down a winning hand in poker. They applauded.

“Straight…flush?” asked the guy.

“Royal, actually,” replied Sherlock. “But so not interested. Look, never mind; I’ll find her myself.”

He spied an annoying beeping electric cart going past, made growling noises until the driver jumped out, then got in himself, cranking it up to the max. Really, his driving skills were improving with all this practice. He should really think about taking his test one of these days. Wait, the cart would go quicker if he jettisoned the bags AND the passenger. He braked sharply, and the dark-haired man sitting on the back slid off to the ground with a thump, crying out as his luggage hit him. Sherlock looked round.

“Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock! It’s me, Adam!”

Adam Green obviously remembered him from an earlier case. *

“I’ll just hang out here for a while, then. Come pick me on the flipside, huh?”

“In your dreams,” muttered Sherlock, reversing over then accelerating away from the prone figure.

“Amanda!” he yelled at random. “I will ransack every damned inch of this place, crash through every barrier, every screen, every desk: Amand–”

“Yes, Sherlock,” said Amanda, swivelling round on her bar stool five feet in front of him. “Was that you on the PA system just now?”

“It might have been, yes. But that’s not important right now, you–”

“Are you coming too?”

“What? I-I–”

“Come on! We’re off to Carnival in Rio – should be fun! I’m the godmother of a samba school – I accidentally sponsored one online when I was drunk – so we have our own float!” She winked at him.

He ignored the blonde temptress because all his attention was on her male companion strolling up to join her, as tipsy as she was, dressed in unfeasibly tight jeans and a battered leather jacket: Lestrade. _Oh, bugger._

“Sherlock? You coming with us?” asked Lestrade, who had seemingly left his common sense along with his suit and warrant card back at the station. “Come on; it’ll be brilliant! Be just like the old days, me back on the…” – here he made a shaking motion with his hand that could have been tipping a bottle, could have been him practicing with an imaginary maraca for the parade – “you back on the…”

Here he made a loud sniffing noise and wiggled his nose and mouth like an ’80s brat pack actor auditioning for the part of Samantha Stephens in a cracked-out remake of _Bewitched_. “They have all the best stuff there!”

“Well, I…”

He did need a holiday; that was true. He was worn out with all the stress and worry of dealing with John’s uncontrollable desires and unreasonable demands. What he’d been through with the fallout of his flatmate’s obvious nervous breakdown…

“Won’t I be…in the way?”

“Not to me! The more, the merrier!” And Lestrade’s lewd wink was even clickier than Amanda’s had been.

“Nor me. As they say in Rio, one for a girl, two for a boy, three for joy!” said Amanda, passing Sherlock a _caipirinha_ for him to down in one.

“I think you just made that up. It sounded like the Magpie theme tune to me,” commented Lestrade.

“Oh, shut up, Gaylord.” Amanda slapped him on the chest before linking arms with the two men. “Let’s get you a ticket, Sherlock.”

Hoping they wouldn’t be doing any kind of song and dance about being off to meet any kind of whiz-head, Sherlock allowed himself to be led away, leaning back to mouth “Gaylord?” at Lestrade behind Amanda’s back. Lestrade shrugged, and Sherlock understood why the detective inspector had gone through life known only by his surname. Sherlock was envious he hadn’t thought of that himself. He had a good view of Lestrade’s arse from here, and as Jake might have said, that sure was one mighty damn fine piece of real estate. Yes, sir, ma’am. And Amanda’s wasn’t bad, either.

Sherlock wondered vaguely if the pile of torched DVDs would have burnt itself out by now. Maybe he should call someone about it. Oh, John would see it when he got home, he reasoned, taking a long swig from his hip flask and handing it over.

John was, at that moment, making his way up the stairs to 221B, having been to the dry cleaners, the launderette, the library, taken his passport to the post office to send off for renewal, his gun to the gunsmith’s for cleaning and his ancient teddy bear to the toy hospital for repair. What a busy morning running errands.

He twitched his nose at the acrid smell which seemed to hang about the house. He entered the living room and decided to have another crack at Facebook – he was tired of not being able to work it properly and clicking and changing things he didn’t mean to. There came a noise from downstairs - but that’s another epilogue.

 

* Described in _Following Your Mind's Instructions_


End file.
